Out Of Time
by ElenaC
Summary: Following an accident at Stark Industries, Tony discovers he's not in Kansas anymore. Will he be able to keep from corrupting the timeline? And what will Sherlock Holmes make of his peculiar new acquaintance? Rated for homoerotic situations. Completed.
1. Chapter 1 & 2

**Out of time**

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes/Iron Man movie-verse  
Genre: crossover, crack  
Rating: PG for homoerotic overtones. This is Tony Stark, after all.  
Warnings: None, except hinky science, and some swearing. Changing POVs. Oh, and it's crack.

Author's Note: This was inspired by RDJ, who plays both Sherlock and Iron Man, being quoted as saying: "A time travel thing. It's a great idea. I'll cross-pollinate my own double-franchise… That's pathetic. The fact that I even thought of that is pathetic." Well, I'm obviously even more pathetic for writing it.

* * *

Chapter I

There was a gigantic explosion. Iron Man, being right on top of it, didn't even have time to curl up into an instinctive fetal position before he was hit by the concussion wave and blasted an indeterminate but probably considerable distance. His head up display went dark even as his own senses faded for a few seconds.

Tony's consciousness was back online before Jarvis was. "Systems rebooting" was the slightly blurry message he could see on the HUD even as the swishing sounds that got through his helmet told him that he was, incredibly, still air-borne, and going at high speeds. Some blast, he thought, bracing himself for the impact that surely was imminent. Apruptly, his display and systems fizzled to life just in time for him to fire up his boot thrusters and repulsors, barely avoiding crashing into a building that suddenly loomed up right in front of him.

Heart pounding, senses awash with adrenaline, he gained altitude and hovered in vertical flight mode to assess his situation.

The blast site was nowhere in sight. For that matter, the UK division of his company wasn't, either. In fact, London suddenly looked completely different, with almost all buildings higher than four floors gone, and if it weren't for the familiar landmarks of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben to his left, he would have thought he'd overshot London somehow and ended up God knew where.

"Um, Jarvis..." he began.

"I have lost contact with the mainframe," the AI's disembodied voice informed him at the same time. "Satellite feeds are down. No contact with - no contact with anything, Sir." Jarvis sounded puzzled.

Tony could sympathize. "I assume GPS is down as well?" He didn't really need to know his exact position anyway. This was London. He'd bet his controlling interest in Stark Industries on that.

"Affirmative. I am picking up a number of unusual pollution factors in the air. Also, barometric pressure and temperature have changed drastically from five minutes ago."

He was beginning to see where this was going. "Show me the electric grid down there," he ordered Jarvis.

The AI superimposed some lines onto the HUD. Disconcertingly few lines. London's electricity supply was now apparently limited to half a dozen buildings, all linked to one single power station.

"Great," Tony said cheerfully. "This looks like the late 1800s. Another time slip. If nothing else, it'll give me the chance to prevent that explosion. All I have to do is get back a few minutes before I left. Jarvis, analyze your records of the blast and extrapolate the precise conditions I must recreate in order to get back to 2008 and my spectacular experiment failure. Apparently, the containment field wasn't quite as secure as I thought it was."

"Will do, Sir." There was a brief pause as the AI processed what must be terabytes of information. "It appears to have been the combined impact of the blast in conjunction with certain atmospheric and astronomical conditions that will not be reproducible within the foreseeable future."

"Hah," Tony commented. "Gives me time for sightseeing. I've always wanted to watch pre-electric engineering in action."

"Indeed, Sir. In the meantime, I suggest we avoid corrupting the timeline."

At this, Tony deflated a little. No pub-crawling, then, and no sampling the local - or should that be temporal? - nubile female population. Pity. "Right. Scan for life signs, and show me an area where I can get down unseen."

* * *

- Watson -

Sherlock Holmes, hunched over on one bony knee with the other at the same height as his head, carefully copied the minute impressions of the tyre tracks upon the dirt in front of him into his notebook while I turned to catch the warmth of the sun upon my face. It was a glorious day with a deep azure sky and a slight breeze just sufficient to prevent one from becoming overheated. The lush greens of the countryside, the twittering of the birds, and the companionable silence between us all contrived to make me a very happy fellow.

Holmes, of course, showed no signs of appreciation for his surroundings. "I think I have it," he announced, rising and brushing the dirt off his trousers. "That's thirteen different impressions recorded. My monograph is progressing nicely." With a nod, he pushed the bicycle over to the patiently waiting boy and the other machines that he had already examined. "Time for some divertissement."

Taking that as my cue, I hefted the picnic basket. "Ready whenever you are, Holmes."

We left the bicycle rental and proceeded on foot, both of us on the lookout for a suitable site to spread our blanket. "Isn't it glorious, Holmes?" I enthused, unable to keep silent any longer. "I swear, after all the gloom and doom of London, the countryside is getting fresher and greener to my eyes every time I come here."

"Quite pleasant," my friend agreed, an amused smile quirking up one side of his mouth as he looked at me. "One would wish such occasions offered themselves more often. As a matter of fact, I -" He fell silent, listening.

I, too, had heard the thunder, and I gazed, puzzled, at the cloudless sky.

"That sounded like an explosion," Holmes said, pointing. "From over there."

"Or it might have been a hunting party all happening upon the fox at the same time," I objected, fearing our peaceful outing would end now in favour of the game being afoot once more. "Besides, even if it was an explosion, it would surely be a matter for the police."

I expected him to state something upon the lines of any diversion being acceptable after the recent dearth of cases coming his way, but to my surprise, he demurred. "You are right, my dear fellow. In any case, it sounded like it was miles away -" Again, he interrupted himself, eyes fixed upon some point in the distance in an expression of utter surprise.

I followed his gaze, but could see nothing. "Holmes?"

"Must have been a trick of the light," he muttered, visibly trying to dismiss what he had seen. "Although I cannot imagine... Never mind. Let's set up camp over there."

* * *

Tony Stark was faced with a problem. A chain of problems, in fact, all hinging on the single fact that he must keep contact with the population of this time to a minimum while he waited for the window of opportunity to get back to his own time.

Normally, he would simply withdraw into his workroom - any workroom - and busy his mind with designing an upgrade for his armor or even just some small gadget like an electron field nullifier or whatever else might cross his mind. However, he had no access to anything - no local currency to buy parts or even food, no workshop, not even a roof over his head. Heck, not even any clothes apart from his underwear, which was sexy and perfectly acceptable in private or the right company, but certainly not in public in Victorian England. And his armor, a titanium-gold alloy exoskeleton capable of supersonic flight, was such a glaring anachronism that he could under no circumstances be seen with it.

On the other hand, he did have his armor. Therefore, he had emergency food of sorts for three days (even if it was disgusting astronaut's goop), he had mobility, protection, offensive weaponry, and company in the form of Jarvis. He had almost 80,000 songs in his mp3 library. The Arc reactor in his chest guaranteed that he would not run out of juice for the next several thousand years. While he definitely preferred silk-covered sheets and all the luxuries his multi-billion dollar personal fortune could afford him, he was not averse to roughing it for a few days, or for however long it would take.

"Could be worse," he muttered. "Jarvis? How is that time estimate coming along?"

"Astronomical conditions will be equivalent in 28 days," the AI's cool voice announced.

"Phase of the moon?" Tony snorted. "You're kiddin' me."

"I am not."

"Never mind. What about the other conditions?"

"There is no way, without satellite surveys, to accurately predict the weather conditions for this long a period."

Tony looked up at the cloudless sky. He could make his own weather surveys if he wanted to. His armor could bring him up into orbit within minutes, and he could even conceivably stay there for a few hours while Jarvis recorded meteorological data. But that would entail the risk of being seen, however minimal, so he would resort to flying only when there was no alternative.

"So, I'll have to stay off the radar - not that it's been invented yet - for a whole month while avoiding going insane with boredom, hunting game and gathering berries for food and sleeping in my armor, not to mention the fact that my sex life will be reduced to manifestations of my awesome manual dexterity. Then, there's a good chance that weather conditions won't be duplicated in 28 days, in which case I'll have to stay for another 28 days for more of the above, and so on and so on, until conditions happen to match. And then, provided I haven't gone bonkers by then, I'll have to blow shit up in close proximity with sufficient force to affect the time continuum, without, and this is the ironic part, without affecting the time I leave behind. Have I left out anything?"

"You'll have to be airborne at a specific place and distance from the ground and must be moving at a specific speed in a specific direction during the time jump, but other than that, no, I'd say you've summarized your predicament precisely."

"I have you for the specifics, Jarvis," Tony grumbled. Occasional stints of solitary designing and constructing aside, he was a social animal, and he loved flying in his armor too much to look forward to being grounded like this. "Here I am, as close to the steampunk age as I'm ever going to get, with steam-driven boats and trains all around me, and I can't even venture near anyone or anything for fear of being seen and having my great-grandmother falling in love with me, or something."

"Weren't your ancestors in the United States by this time?" Jarvis interrupted the litany.

Tony didn't lose a beat. "You know what I mean. If I interact with anyone, it would mean that they wouldn't be able to do whatever it was they were supposed to be doing without my interference, and that could affect the timeline. Not to mention the fact that any fluctuations in time might be picked up by any of my time-travelling foes who'd just love to wreak havoc with me here and now, when I can't even repair my armor adequately if it gets damaged. And can you imagine what a fight with Kang and his ilk would do to the timeline?" He looked at his densely wooded surroundings. "We'd accelerate Great Britain's deforestation single-handedly, for one, and add to the local folklore for another. No. I'd best make this forest my world for the next months. And if I start acting funny, Jarvis, you are instructed to disconnect my reactor to shut me down. I'm serious."

"But that would kill you, Sir."

"Not immediately. It might serve to bring me to my senses, though. Besides, dying in the past would be infinitely preferable to screwing up the future. Therefore, effective immediately, you're charged with monitoring my mental profile, and if there are deviations that exceed 51 percent from the established norm, you're ordered to negate Arc reactor output for however long it takes me to get my reason back online. Got it?"

"With great misgivings, Sir."

"I have a feeling that great misgivings will be a bit of a theme for the two of us for a while, Jarv. On the upside, nobody's actively trying to kill me right now, so I suppose that's something. Let's see about scaring up dinner."

* * *

- Watson -

"We seem to be given a choice, my dear Watson," Holmes pronounced. "Either we consume this excellent roast without the accompaniment of cranberries, or we shall have to sally forth into the undergrowth in search of some."

I grinned in response to his playful tone. "I move we stretch our legs a bit and see what we can find."

"And I second the motion, which makes it unanimous. I should even think that, in this deserted neck of the woods, it's safe to simply leave everything behind. The only thing that could happen is bears despairing of being able to open Mrs. Hudson's patented jars."

And so, we embarked upon a delightful stroll, trying to keep the location of our blanket in mind while moving in ever widening circles in search of the elusive red berries. Holmes regaled me with a recitation of recipes for cranberry chutneys he had happened upon, while I wondered if he remembered them because they had once had relevance to one of his cases, and if there existed a monograph penned by him, possibly titled, "upon the differences of the various cranberry chutneys and their application to the solving of crimes".

I was on the point of asking him that when we both came to an abrupt standstill.

We had moved through a thicket and reached a spot where it was possible to see quite far past the thick trunks of a cluster of old beeches. And there, about fifty yards away, stood a red-and-gold metal manlike figure with glowing eyes and a glowing lamp upon its chest, holding what appeared to be a rabbit in its metal hand.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Having tacitly agreed that we were both seeing the same impossible thing, we cautiously advanced towards it.

The metal man had noticed us, for he turned towards us, watching our approach with a posture that, incongruously, conveyed frustrated resignation in a way that I never would have expected from an inanimate object.

"From its dimensions, I should assume that there might be a man in there," Holmes told me sotto voce. "It looks like some elaborate suit of armour."

To my mind, it looked like a mechanical contraption of some sort that had somehow learned human movement. I would not get past the glowing eyes, the almost ethereal bluish light emanating from them and a circular hole in the thing's chest. If there were a man in there, I thought, he would have to have the source of that light embedded in his chest, and that was surely impossible.

We had by then approached the metal man sufficiently to make out the details of his surface, an intricate design of joints and overlapping segment-like covers clearly intended to provide full articulation, even if it - or he- was currently motionless.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Holmes addressed the metal man cheerfully, assuming the local dialect with the ease of a natural born actor. "Are you with the local hunt? You haven't by any chance seen a cranberry bush around here?"

There was a moment's silence, then the metal man responded, "Do I look like a hunter?" His voice sounded strange, somehow distorted, but the modulation was human, with a distinct American accent. Maybe, I thought, Holmes was right and there was a man in there. How else would such a thing be possible, after all? "Next cranberry bush is one hundred and twenty-sex meters thataway." One red-metal hand pointed, the other still holding the rabbit.

"Thank you," Holmes responded, eyes sparkling, clearly intrigued by this improbable encounter, and clearly having no intention of moving in the indicated direction. "And might I further trouble you for the time of day, Sir?"

"Fuck," the metal man responded clearly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, I meant, how very unfortunate. You're Sherlock Holmes, and you're Dr. Watson. Of all the people to run into, it'd have to be you. So much for remaining inconspicuous. I assume you've already deduced my life story from way I hold my head or something, Mr. Holmes."

Now, Holmes' eyes were shining like stars. "Only parts of it as yet, and that much from the way you speak and appear rather than your body language. You were born on the East Coast of the USA but have spent a considerable part of your life on the West Coast, and you have considerable, if not formidable, engineering knowledge. This I gathered from your accent and from the contraption you are wearing, which surely was not manufactured in any of the factories I know. As for our names, it appears you have the advantage of us, Sir."

"Do the words 'non-disclosure agreement' mean anything to you?"

"Not as such, but you may be assured of our complete discretion."

There was a brief silence. I had the distinct impression that there was an unheard communication going on inside that metal shell that Holmes and I were not privy to.

"Good enough," the metal man finally said. There was a sharp, hissing sound, and then his golden faceplate moved up onto his head, revealing a handsome, very human face fringed with black hair and a well-groomed short black beard. "My name is Tony Stark. It seems I'm in a bit of a tight spot."

Holmes held out his hand, and Stark took it in his metal-clad one. "If we can be of assistance..."

Our new acquaintance held up his rabbit. "For now, I could really use something to go with that in exchange for bits of it. In the long run, I need to go underground until I can get back home, and believe me, it's a hell of a story."

* * *

"It's a hell of a story," Tony had said. The complicated part of it was that he could not, under any circumstances, tell the true story. Anything would be better than letting slip that he was from the future - the consequences for the timeline would certainly be disastrous. But of course, it was just his luck that his audience would have to contain the world's most astute reasoning and observing mind of his generation. Tony was used to spinning things to his customers or his board of directors if he wanted to achieve certain results, but fabricating a story out of whole cloth that was bulletproof enough to fool Sherlock Holmes would be a whole different ballgame, and one he was not at all sure he could pull off.

While he pondered the problem, another part of his mind was jumping up and down with excitement at being in the company with Sherlock Holmes. Tony had read some of the short stories by Arthur Conan Doyle as a bored seven-year-old. One story in particular, "The Engineer's Thumb", had made quite an impression on him as it depicted a hydraulic engineer applying the principles of his profession to another field, namely medicine, by using pressure to stop a heavy bleeding. It had taught Tony that physical laws were universal, and that being able to think outside the box could save your life. Then, of course, there had been the appeal of logic and intelligence triumphing over evil, and that being a genius in a particular field could be a force for good. Thus, to a boy who had written a computer operating system when he was ten, Sherlock Holmes had been something of a role model.

However, he had to admit that his imagination had provided him with a somewhat different mental image of the famous detective. The illustrations, while not dissimilar, had not done Holmes justice. The man was striking. Everything about him, from his whippet-thin body and abrupt, almost bird-like movements to his piercing eyes, spoke about a sense of purpose and a concentration of all his considerable faculties on the here-and-now. A force to be reckoned with. If Tony ever met such a man in his time, he would hire him for Stark Industries on the spot and worry about finding an adequate position for him later.

Then there was Holmes' faithful chronicler. Far from being the slow, portly gentleman Tony had imagined, Watson was, to put none too fine a point on it, hot. And very aware of it. There was a certain ease and confidence about the way the man held his body, something Tony had often seen in handsome men (and in the mirror), that just screamed "I'm too polite to say it aloud, but damn I'm pretty and good in the sack". Ordinarily, Tony would not be averse to taking Watson up on the unspoken promise, and, judging from the smirk he was receiving in return to his scrutiny of the good Doctor, Watson was thinking along similar lines.

Well, well. Tony felt his heart rate pick up a little at the prospect, and he returned the smirk with interest, only belatedly remembering that he was supposed to stay away from all sorts of contact with the temporal population. Well, too late anyway.

"Perhaps you would care to give us some indication on exactly what this 'tight spot' you find yourself in is, Mr. Stark," Holmes interrupted the moment.

Was that an undertone of miffedness? Tony wondered. Was the Great Detective peeved at the flirtation that he could hardly have missed, being such a good observer and all? Amused at the implications, Tony turned to Holmes, smirk still in place, and could stop himself just in time from telling him to call him Tony. 'Victorian England, Tony,' he reminded himself. 'No such shocking familiarities unless you're married.' The thought prompted the smirk to deepen.

"Well," he began, "as you can see, I'm field-testing a new piece of equipment." 'Don't mention flight capabilities, crude oil derivatives, integrated circuits, computer-assisted hydraulics, repulsors, reactors, jets, or Metallica,' he reminded himself. 'Doesn't leave much except the armored parts themselves, does it.' "It's an experimental body armor to be used in search-and-rescue operations. I built it in my home, and I'm thinking of selling it if it proves feasible, and if a way can be found to bulk manufacture it at a reasonable cost. I, uh, haven't patented any of it, so you can understand that I'm a little averse to my competitors spotting it, or me in it." So far, so good. Dissimulation was better than fabrication. Except for the fact that he had no intention of selling the technology, none of that had been an actual lie.

Holmes was nodding thoughtfully. "It is certainly a revolutionary idea and a novel design. Isn't it a bit heavy to be walking around in it, though?" He reached out a hand and briefly tapped a finger against Tony's armored shoulder.

Tony blinked, taking care to keep his thoughts off his features. 'Fishing. He's encouraging me, trying to keep me talking. He suspects I'm lying and is trying to catch me contradicting myself. It's what I would do.' "It's fine," he said aloud, " and yeah, it's pretty cool. I'd give you a demonstration, but I don't think you'll be buying it, so let's not waste your and my time. Besides, I'd much rather be out of it, to be frank."

Watson, obviously truly being the all-around decent fellow that Tony had read about, picked up his cue. "How can we help, Mr. Stark? Is it stuck? Do you need any tools?"

"No, not that. I, um, well, I really need a change of clothes. Mine suffered a little accident when I conducted the fire resistance test."

"I should be happy to lend you something of mine," Watson offered immediately.

Tony looked at him, taking in his athletic physique, the wide shoulders and sturdy legs, liking what he saw. Watson returned his assessment with a frank gaze that was all but inviting. "That would work," Tony said, smiling his most charming smile. "Thank you."

"An excellent idea, Watson," Holmes agreed immediately, and Tony wondered amusedly if the detective was trying to stop the flirting because it was getting on his nerves, or whether he actually was jealous. "There should be a train presently to get you to Baker Street and back within an hour. We'll make Mr. Stark presentable, and then we can all return in time for dinner."

'I should definitely not go to Baker Street, most famous address of this time or no,' Tony admonished himself. 'Think of the timeline. Think of the danger.' But then he grinned to himself. 'Like hell.'

"Here," Tony said impulsively, holding the rabbit he was still clutching in his left gauntlet out to Watson. "I'm sure your housekeeper can do this more justice than I ever could." 'At least not without access to my ultra-modern computer-assisted range and Jarvis' recipes,' he added silently.

Watson took the rabbit, muttering something about it being a fine thing for a respectable gentleman to be seen carrying around, and left after a brisk, matter-of-fact nod.

Which left Tony alone in the formidable company of Sherlock Holmes. "Well, Mr. Stark," the detective said casually, "it appears that we have quite a bit of time to kill. How about we bring the quest for cranberries to a successful conclusion? And then, while we prevent Mrs. Hudson's excellent picnic repast from going to waste, you can tell me the true story."

Tony widened his eyes in his best innocent look. "Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes began walking, clearly expecting Tony to keep up with him. "By omission, if nothing else. It's not exactly my field of expertise, yet I should be prepared to wager that only a very small part of your 'experimental body armor' consists of materials that I would recognize. It is not made of iron - the light reflection is wrong. Yet when I touched it, it affected the compass needle I keep in my signet ring as if it were heavily magnetized. Clearly, it is not just a metal shell. There are other components inside, which elevates it from mere armor to something wholly unique, if not impossible."

Tony swallowed an oath. He should have known.

Holmes, having reached a cranberry bush, began to collect berries into his free hand. "And speaking of impossibilities, you arrived here by flight - Watson and I have circled your position, and still I did not see your very distinctive footmarks anywhere. Besides, I saw you arrive. Your armor is capable of something over which scientists are currently merely theorizing. Also, that peculiar light in your chest is obviously recessed far enough to penetrate your sternum, which indicates a medicinal intervention that not even the best British surgeons could conceivably perform."

'He's going to deduce it,' Tony thought, heart sinking. 'All of it. I was screwed from the beginning. He's Sherlock fucking Holmes, dammit.'

"And then there's the rabbit," Holmes went on, relentlessly. "It was dead yet uninjured, so obviously it was not killed by a gun, and I cannot conceive of you pursuing and catching it wearing this cumbrous armor, which leaves some method of hunt that I am unfamiliar with. You did not have time to set traps, after all. Therefore, your armor is equipped with some sort of weapon that leaves no wounds. Then there is the matter of your speech, which is more unusual than your being American would account for. Lastly, there's your reluctance of being seen at a time when you should be giving public demonstrations of your invention in order to attract customers, not skulking about in the woods." Holmes looked at Tony triumphantly. "Would you care to advance an explanation that can cover all these inconsistencies and impossibilities, Mr. Stark?"

Tony smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry. I can't. You're every bit as sharp as I expected, and I knew I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of feeding you bull, but I swear that I didn't have a choice. I'm not one of the bad guys. All I want is get back home, which I can't even attempt for a month, and during that time, I've got to lay low. That's all I can tell you."

Holmes scowled at him and compressed his lips. "I have assured you of my discretion."

Tony sighed. "I don't doubt that. Look, I know you're intrigued. I expect you'd be constitutionally incapable of leaving a mystery unsolved. But you've got to believe me that telling you the whole story would be a Very Bad Thing."

"Why? What could possibly happen?"

Tony fixed those intense grey eyes with a steely glare. "I'd have to kill you."

At that, Holmes actually laughed, a sharp, short bark of amusement. "Hardly. In fact, if my deductions are correct, killing me or anyone else is the last thing you would do. But you do bluff very handsomely, Stark. I'm impressed."

'Fuck,' Tony thought. 'I can't win this.' "You seem very sure of that, Holmes."

"I am almost certain. Let me ask you one question to settle the matter: What is today's date?"

"Fuck," Tony said out loud.

Holmes smiled.

* * *

- Watson -

"There really is no alternative, Stark," Sherlock Holmes told our new acquaintance as we were taking our seats in the otherwise empty carriage. "We cannot have you running loose in London, or anywhere else for that matter. Still, you need shelter and food. Ergo, you are staying with us. Watson and I will make do."

I was frankly astonished. Our little flat was hardly suited for three persons, especially considering its permanently cluttered state. Apart from that, Holmes was not in the habit of inviting perfect strangers into our home for any extended period of time. Something had obviously happened during my brief absence that had convinced my friend to consider such drastic measures.

Stark, now dressed appropriately and accompanied by a metal suitcase that, I assumed, contained his remarkable armour, leaned back in his seat and regarded my friend with that detached amusement that seemed to be an integral part of his character. "Something tells me we're all going to regret this decision," he offered, "but I admit I see no choice, either. Lucky for you I don't snore." This last sentence was uttered with a glance in my direction.

The fellow's advances bordered upon the positively scandalous, and yet his innuendos were uttered with such charm and deadpan nonchalance that I found it impossible to take offence.

Holmes, however, clearly did not share my lenience. "You are aware, Stark, that what you are insinuating is quite illegal," he said severely. "You are certainly sleeping on the couch."

"Sure, fine. Whatever," Stark said carelessly, looking at Holmes with an impish smile. "And I'll just retreat into your room whenever a client comes calling."

"There is a cellar you could retreat to," Holmes countered sternly. "It's mainly used for storage, but I'm sure we could make you at home amongst the potatoes and piles of firewood."

"Holmes," I admonished my friend, but they both ignored me.

"Throw in a work bench, a blowtorch, and a box of metal scraps, and I won't come up to bother you for days," Stark shot back, clearly not offended by Holmes' poor show of hospitality. "I'd even be grateful, all kiddin' aside."

"Excellent," Holmes said. "I expect that Mrs. Hudson will probably raise the rent to accommodate another eater. As I rather doubt you'll be able to offer monetary compensation -"

"Oh, don't worry, I can make myself useful," Stark interrupted him. "You have no idea how useful."

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thanks for all the kind reviews! I'm sorry I'm taking so long with this, and thank you all for your patience.

* * *

**Chapter III**

- Watson -

Contrary to my unvoiced misgivings, our visitor seemed inclined to curb his flirtations for the moment. Far from following through upon his insinuations, Stark, upon entering our humble sitting-room, immediately directed his attention to the bric-a-brac strewn about our abode and proceeded to subject everything to close scrutiny, starting with the clutter upon our mantelpiece and working his way through Holmes' chemical equipment and even examining the gasogene. Finally, he ended up at our bookshelf and subsided into my armchair with a book on iron smelting techniques that a grateful client had sent Holmes once, which he began to read with silent but obvious and intense amusement.

Holmes had observed him for a few minutes with the same wary watchfulness he normally bestowed upon our female clients. Finally, he seemed to decide that Stark would not upset his chaotic filing arrangement nor do anything unpredictable, and as he apparently did not mind this individual going through our personal effects, he promptly proceeded to ignore our guest and busied himself with the evening editions of the papers before lighting a pipe and staring vaguely into space.

I was burning with curiosity. Why was Stark here? How long was he supposed to stay? Who was he? And what in the name of the Lord Harry was so funny about smelting techniques? Finally, I could contain myself no longer. "Holmes, might I have a word?"

My friend glanced at me without otherwise moving a muscle, and the abstracted expression in his eyes showed me that I had interrupted a train of thought. I was about to apologize when he roused himself. "Very well. It is time to confer with Mrs. Hudson about our guest's accommodation anyway."

Stark looked up from his book. "Oh, either of your beds will be fine. I'm a very agreeable bed partner, or so I've been told. Snuggly, even." His serious expression made it impossible to tell whether or not that was meant in jest. Apparently, the fellow was quite unable to leave well enough alone after all.

Holmes chose not to dignify that remark with a response and shushed me when I drew breath to do so in his stead. "Come along, Watson."

I followed him downstairs. "Holmes, what the deuce is going on?" I demanded as soon as we were out of earshot. "I understand about aiding a fellow in distress, but aren't you going a bit far? Why don't we just deposit the chap at his home, or at a hotel, and be done with it?"

He smiled an impish smile. "Worried about your virtue, Watson?"

I scowled. "If I recall correctly, you were the one mentioning how illegal the acts he is insinuating are. Besides, he is rather... obnoxious, is the word, I think."

"I find him highly stimulating," said Holmes serenely. "Pray try not to be put off by his manner," he went on, ignoring my snort. "There is more to this fellow than meets the eye."

"Well, one thing is certain. That chap's no gentleman."

"His social circumstances are merely of passing interest to me. Besides, it's quite possible that you are mistaken."

I sighed. "Holmes, don't you think it's time to stop being cryptic and fill me in?"

He nodded. "You're quite right, of course. Very well, then. Brace yourself..."

* * *

The door had hardly closed when Tony had put the book aside, was out of his chair and opening the case that contained his armor. "Jarvis," he said softly, removing the helmet, "I want you to make a recording of everything that goes on within sensor range, starting now. Visible spectrum and audio only; I think we can disregard the rest of the EM spectrum. Stop when I tell you, or when your energy is at 10 percent, whichever happens first."

"Anticipating trouble, are we, sir?" Jarvis inquired.

"Trouble? I hope not. No, this is an historic occasion; I intend to make the most of it. Back home, everyone thinks Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character! Either this whole thing is the result of too much martini combined with bad olives, and I'm currently lying unconscious amidst the debris of a truly spectacular party, or I've stepped through the looking glass, in which case I intend to bring back proof."

"Very well, Sir," Jarvis replied coolly. "Recording. Though I might mention that 10 percent is cutting it rather fine."

Tony shrugged. "I'll recharge you through the arc reactor when I next put the armor on again. Right. I'm turning off the HUD, so the glowing eyes won't give you away, plus it'll save energy." Looking around, he placed the helmet on top of some books at the back of the bookshelf, where the light from the gas fixtures would not strike it and its sensors had an unobstructed view of the room. "How's that?"

"Not too shabby," the AI responded.

"It's a foregone conclusion that Holmes is going to find you soon, so try to curb any remarks when he does, okay? He knows too much about the future as it is. We shouldn't tip him off on the existence of computers, or he'll invent one before Alan Turing does."

"Understood, Sir."

Tony returned to his chair and picked up the book. Just in time, as it turned out, before the dynamic duo returned.

It was immediately apparent from the change in Watson's manner that Sherlock Holmes had taken the man into his confidence. Tony didn't know what to think about that - it seemed to needlessly increase the risk of creating a temporal paradox to have another person in the know - but there was hardly anything he could do about it. In any case, Watson stared at Tony with none of the exasperated amusement he had shown before. Instead, now his regard showed awe and curiosity.

That was better. Awe Tony was used to. The presence of Sherlock Holmes had made Tony feel a little off his stride, since he could no longer claim with absolute certainty to be the smartest person in the room. Watson's obvious wonder was going a long way towards removing that unfamiliar feeling of inferiority.

There was a minute or so of awkward silence as Watson took a seat on one of the visitor's chairs while Holmes settled down in the other armchair. Tony realized that he had usurped the doctor's customary place and wondered whether he should surrender it in the interest of future relations (which he fully intended to pursue), but he was saved from making that decision when Holmes broke the silence.

"Since we all of us value our sanity, we should first and foremost decide on the living arrangements."

Tony grinned. "Like I said, either of your beds will be -"

"That is quite enough of that, Stark," Holmes said with a steely undertone that made Tony raise his eyebrows. "You are here on sufferance, and I'll thank you not to try our patience overmuch. It will be difficult enough to share these small rooms among three persons without enduring your absurd insinuations at every turn."

_Whoops_, Tony thought. _Struck a nerve there_. He raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry. Just my way of dealing with stress." But even as he said that, he shot a wink in Watson's direction. _This is going to be fun._

* * *

- Watson -

I confess I do not have a clear recollection of the beginning of the conversation, for my mind was still reeling from the revelations Holmes had imparted upon me. Time-travel? A man from the future? I would have thought that I was the victim of an elaborate joke, were it not for Holmes' final and compelling argument: "Look at the fellow's chest, Watson." I was sufficiently familiar with my friend's cryptic instructions to know that there was always a reason behind them, so I looked as soon as we were back in the sitting-room. Then I spent a few seconds trying to decide whether my eyes were deceiving me, or whether I was indeed seeing a faint bluish light seeping through Stark's borrowed shirt. And finally, I realized that for one thing, indeed I was - and it certainly was no gas light -, and for another thing, there was no other explanation that covered all the facts.

A time traveler.

That was the moment when Stark winked at me, and I dragged my mind to the present, but not fast enough to prevent a blush from heating up my face. After all, the fellow was very handsome. His undisguised flirtation had reminded me of the pleasures to be found among like-minded individuals of the same sex, and it had been entirely too long since I had last sampled them.

Embarrassed by the sudden upsurge of lust, I cast a glance in Holmes' direction, and his scowl informed me that he had seen and divined the reason for my blush, which only served to increase my mortification. How could he fail to deduce now that I occasionally fancied men? And how could he, who abhorred all forms of human sentimentality, still remain my intimate friend with that knowledge?

I sat in silent horror at the thought of a future without Holmes while around me the conversation continued.

"You will have to find some other way to deal with your stress, Stark. Whatever the legal and moral situation may be in your time, here and now, there are severe repercussions in store for anyone who engages in sodomy."

"Who said anything about 'engaging in sodomy', Holmes? I was merely tryin' to be practical about this without anyone having to sleep on the sofa. 'Cause I just know that that would be me, and I don't do sofas."

"That is too bad, because that is where you will sleep. Or in the coal cellar, if you prefer."

There was a pause, and I once again tried to participate in the conversation.

Stark was looking at Holmes in what I can only describe as a puppy-dog expression, and then the fellow _batted his eyelashes_.

It should have looked ridiculous, or at least nancy-ish. Instead, it looked charming, and very engaging. Clearly, this was a man who was very comfortable with and sure about every aspect of himself, and who was willing to use his natural advantages to achieve his ends with no regard for propriety. Amidst my mortification and the still reverberating general shock, I realized I was envious.

There was a pause, and then Holmes laughed. "Oh, my dear fellow," he cried, "you really are too much. You can't possibly expect that to work on me. It's the sofa for you, period, and I'd advise you to stay there during the night. I am an exceptionally light sleeper, and so is Watson. Also, we tend to react rather impulsively if people sneak about our rooms."

Stark was grinning unrepentantly. "Oh, I certainly wouldn't want to be tackled and wrestled into submission by either one of you, or even both at the same time. My poor heart couldn't stand it." He fanned himself mockingly, still grinning. "Besides, it's looking like a really comfy sofa. All of two inches of upholstery. I'll sleep like a baby."

We were not destined to learn what Holmes intended to reply to that, because at that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing dinner and not-so-inconspicuously assessing our guest.

That was when we realized that Stark was quite capable of behaving himself. "Good evening, Ma'am," he said easily. "I'd like to thank you for putting up with me, and if I can make myself useful in any way around the house, just let me know, please."

She smiled, flustered. "Oh, I wouldn't – I couldn't! It's not my place to presume…"

Stark winked at her. "Please presume away. I mean it. Looks like I'll have a lot of free time on my hands, and while your esteemed lodgers are out chasing criminals, there may be one or two things I can do to, you know, make life easier for you."

Or maybe not. "Stark!" I said sternly, even as Holmes looked away to hide a smirk. "Really!"

Stark looked at me, wide-eyed. "What?" he said, the picture of innocence. "I'm an engineer. There may be something mechanical I can apply my skills to in exchange for food and lodging. It'd be only fair, since money's a little scarce right now." He grinned, then turned serious. "Like shoveling coals, making repairs to the furnace. Not what you're thinking. Really, Dr. Watson, get your mind out of the gutter."

Mrs. Hudson did something I had heretofore never heard her do. She giggled.

By now, I was flushed bright red, and I cast about for words. Futilely, as it turned out.

Holmes, of course, was no help at all. "That's an excellent idea," he said, totally ignoring the undercurrents. Apparently, he was not as worried about Mrs. Hudson's virtue as I was. "It'll be a formidable way to channel your excess energies, Stark."

"Not the only way I can think of, certainly," Stark said, "but it'll do for starters."

* * *

Dinner continued in much the same vein, and finally I realized, as Holmes had done right away, that the only way to tolerate our new acquaintance's outrageous behavior was to ignore it. In the end, we actually managed to talk about safe and everyday topics, and if there was the occasional fluttering of eyelids and thinly veiled innuendo from our guest, both Holmes and I circumvented him by continuing to act perfectly normal.

When we finally said good-night, it felt like some sort of truce had been drawn, even if I was not quite sure what the battle had been about, or indeed if there really had been one.

Later that night, as I lay alone in my bed, I could not help but imagine Stark downstairs on the sofa and my friend in the next room, and I wondered what might be going on, and my imagination ran wild.

* * *

To be continued....


	3. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks muchly for the copious feedback, guys!

Chapter warning: Homoerotic situations. Nothing explicit.

* * *

**Chapter IV**

Tony Stark couldn't sleep.

Contrary to his assertion, this was not because he was forced to sleep on a sofa. After all, he had spent most sleeping hours in his life (those that hadn't been spent passed out from drink, that is) with his head cushioned on his arms while sitting at either a desk or a workbench. Comfortable beds, as far as he was concerned, were for having sex in, and sleep was overrated anyway.

No, he couldn't sleep because, a), he was still on Los Angeles time, and b), he was in Sherlock fucking Holmes' home, surrounded by all the things that people were still reading about in his time, more than a hundred years later. How was he supposed to just go to sleep? Only a door away, Sherlock Holmes himself was - Tony strained his ears - not sleeping either, but walking to and fro and muttering to himself.

He imagined the Great Detective getting ready for bed, wondering idly what he might wear in bed, if he was one for self-gratification, what the Victorians thought about masturbation anyway, and going on to speculate what the heck was going on between Holmes and his biographer. Because if he was any judge, and Tony Stark usually thought that he was, then the two of them totally had the hots for each other. Watson certainly wasn't a stranger to the concept, and Holmes had reacted to Tony's flirting with Watson with such obvious jealousy as to make the matter absolutely clear.

And if they weren't doing each other, then they most definitely should be.

Still, Tony conceded that, while he himself would just come out and ask if he were in either of their positions, the constraints of the time might make that a little difficult, if not impossible. Homosexuality was punishable by several years of hard labor in this time and place, if he remembered correctly, and had until recently even been a capital offense. 'Kind of puts a damper on things,' he had to admit.

He realized that he was tossing and turning with sleep a million miles away, and finally sat up in defeat. 'Should check on Jarvis anyway, preferably while Holmes isn't looking.' The sounds from next door had ceased. 'Now might be a good time.'

The light from his arc reactor illuminated the room nicely, and not for the first time, Tony felt an ironic sort of gratefulness for the fact that he had the device embedded in his chest. It not only kept him from dying, but it also made a serviceable night light.

He got up and padded to the bookshelf where he had hidden his helmet, scratching his naked butt as he went. He had declined Watson's offer of a nightshirt, not only because he had wanted to see the man's look of scandalized horror at the thought of him sleeping in the nude, but mainly because that simply was how he slept when he did sleep in a bed. The bed in this case being a sofa was a mere technicality.

The arc reactor's bluish light threw everything into stark relief, shadows moving as he moved, which leant a nice, otherworldly atmosphere to a situation that was already surreal enough. There, amidst books that had been published several hundred years before Tony was born, sat the Iron Man helmet – the only piece of electronic equipment on the planet. He wondered if Jarvis was feeling lonely or special right now.

He reached up and took the helmet down. "Jarvis, how are you on reserves?" he whispered.

"Helmet accumulators at 15 percent, Sir," the AI's voice came softly. "Armor accumulators at 99."

Tony made a mental note to include an independent power source for the armor with his next upgrade. "Discontinue monitoring."

"Yes, sir. Sensors offline. May I remind you that we will need to monitor atmospheric conditions periodically?"

Oh yeah, Tony reflected, there still was that little matter of getting back home. He'd need a plan for that eventually. "I know," he said wryly. "We'll do that as soon as I figure out a safe way to put on the suit without being seen for extended periods."

"Regretting your decision to put designing stealth capabilities on the back burner, sir?"

"A little. That would have come in handy right now, wouldn't it. Oh well, I'd better recharge you now, so you can keep reminding me of my fallacies."

He turned around, helmet in hand, and nearly collided with Sherlock Holmes, who was standing directly behind him. "Whoa!" Holding the helmet in one hand, he placed his other hand against the arc reactor in his chest, breathing heavily as if close to a heart attack. 'A white nightshirt,' a part of Tony noticed. 'He's wearing a white nightshirt. How quaint.'

Holmes ignored his theatrics. "Who are you talking to?" the detective asked, eyes darting to and fro in search of Tony's invisible dialog partner.

'He can't deduce that one,' Tony thought. 'He simply can't. It's outside his range of experience. Hell, Jarvis is outside of the range of experience of most people in _my_ time.'

He blinked. "Nobody." His expression was one of perfect innocence.

The next second, he was pinned against the bookshelf with Holmes' one hand holding his arm behind his back while the other was at his throat, and the helmet clonked onto the carpeted floor. "Don't play games with me, Stark," the detective hissed, pressed so close to him that Tony could feel his body heat through the thin nightshirt that was the only barrier between their bodies. He could also feel surprisingly strong muscles straining, and he couldn't help but notice that they were perfectly aligned in every way. "I invited you into my home on good faith, and nobody betrays my trust and goes unpunished."

"Not betrayin' your trust, Holmes," Tony forced out. The situation was turning him on immensely, which would soon be noticeable to Holmes where they were touching so intimately. "I swear there's nobody else in here. I was talkin' to myself."

The grip around his arm didn't give an inch. "You were talking to that helmet," Holmes corrected icily, breath ghosting over Tony's face, "and it seemed to answer you in a voice that is not your own. Now, we both know that's impossible –" He interrupted himself, eyes widening. "Is it."

By now, Tony had to keep himself from moving his hips against the man so close to his. He loved being restrained and choked during sex, and his body was receiving entirely the wrong signals. "It's impossible here and now," he said, pleasure gathering and tingling in the base of his spine. "Now please, either let me go, or ravish me. That's the temporally accurate phrase, isn't it?"

As abruptly as he had seized Tony, Holmes let him go, stepping back and turning to the side. There was an awkward pause as Tony reached down to pat his erection and get his hormones back under control while Holmes studied something on the table as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Well," Tony drawled finally, "that was embarrassing." He was not, in fact, embarrassed in the slightest, but he shrewdly suspected that the detective was.

Holmes smiled thinly. "I did warn you about sneaking about at night."

"That you did," Tony shot back, "and I did warn you about wrestling with me, and about my fragile constitution."

Holmes regarded him, expression unreadable. "You liked that." He sounded less like stating the obvious and more like trying out a new concept.

"You noticed. Strike one for observation and deduction." Grinning, Tony picked up his helmet, strolled back to the sofa and flopped down, completely uncaring about his continued nakedness. Holmes had just had his fun, as far as Tony was concerned, so he would just have to cope. "You're as quick as a snake, Holmes. I sure could use a drink."

The detective seemed to decide that he did owe Tony, because he turned to the decanter without another word and poured out two drinks. 'Whiskey,' Tony identified by smell, 'single-malt. Scottish.'

He accepted his with an approving nod and savored it, curious about differences from the modern stuff, while Holmes sat down in his armchair and continued to study him, apparently not at all fazed by Tony's lack of attire, much to Tony's disappointment.

Tony stared back, weighing his options. He needed to recharge Jarvis, which would entail putting on the suit for a few minutes. That kind of went counterproductive with the main thought currently residing in his brain, one that insisted that Holmes had too many clothes on for what Tony wanted to do with him.

"I am curious," Holmes interrupted Tony's fantasies.

"Oh yeah," Tony breathed, "so am I. Believe me, so am I. Why don't we repair to your bed and satisfy both our curiosity?"

Holmes shook his head. "Do you ever stop thinking of sexual intercourse?"

"I'm an accomplished multi-tasker, so the honest answer to that one would be, only when I'm unconscious. Shocking, I know."

"Well, I expect you to keep your thoughts to yourself, Stark. I was not joking about deviant activities being highly illegal. In fact, I expect you to promise to be more considerate of Mrs. Hudson's sensibilities in future, and to spare Watson the moral conflict."

Tony grinned. "You expect me to promise...?" he echoed. "You're kidding, right? It takes two to tango, you know."

"That's not the point. Your behavior is inacceptable, and disruptive. And to be honest, this household has enough inacceptable and disruptive behavior to deal with as it is."

Tony studied him, mind leaping to a highly intriguing conclusion. "I see. You _are_ jealous. Don't worry, I won't take Watson away from you."

It seemed that this had actually struck the detective speechless, because there was a marked pause before Holmes responded. "You can't, because you'll be gone soon, and you'll be going back alone."

Which wasn't the confirmation of his assumptions Tony had been hoping for. Were they, or were they not? He shrugged and asked the question. "So, are you two doing it or not? 'Cause I can't imagine you didn't notice that the man's hot, and that he likes guys. I mean, living together like that and all -"

He trailed off when Holmes rose, his eyes hard. "Good night, Stark." He was gone in three long strides, the door closing behind him.

Tony grinned and drained his glass, then got up to refill it. "That went well," he remarked to nobody in particular.

* * *

- Holmes -

I pride myself upon my mental flexibility. Conditions change constantly, and he who wishes to remain sure of his footing had best be able not only to adjust to, but even to anticipate, every change of terrain. It is not often that I find myself incapable of keeping up.

However, since we have taken in the time traveller, that condition seems to be disquietingly close to becoming my normal state. Clearly, reconciling two totally disparate sets of circumstances, each normal to each of us, is resulting in something approaching continental shift, just faster. Much faster.

What irks me most is the fact that Stark seems to be able to cope better than I. Then again, he has an unfair advantage. It is surely easier to look back to the past than to anticipate the future. I need more information about his time, apart from the obvious changes in moral behaviour that are in store, if I want to negate that advantage.

Be that as it may, he has given me much food for thought, but that is what the night is for. And I still have not found out with whom he was talking.

* * *

- Watson -

Upon entering the sitting-room the next morning, I found Holmes squatted in front of Stark's armour case, staring at it with visible frustration. Stark himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Watson," Holmes said without looking up, "come here and have a look at this."

I came and had a look. It was a metal case, red and golden, like the armour it held. The design was very unusual, which, I supposed, was to be expected considering its provenance. It also looked exactly like I remembered it to look yesterday, when Stark had deposited it there. "Um," I said after a moment, "what am I looking at?"

Holmes turned the thing around, still with that aspect of perplexity. "You're looking at something that should be impossible," he said, sounding personally insulted.

"Impossible in our time, you mean," I said, trying to guess what he was leading up to.

"Impossible in any time," he returned, with some asperity. "This case has no closing or opening mechanism that I can see. There is a seam where the top and bottom parts come together, but, as you can see for yourself, there is no latch, no hinges, no keyhole. Nothing to suggest how it opens, or closes, for that matter. Yet I saw it open."

Unconsciously, I looked around.

"He's in the bathroom, figuring out the mystery of shaving with a straight razor," Holmes answered my unasked question, still without moving his eyes from the case. "The deuced thing has to open somehow. Watson, get me the crowbar."

I stared at him. "Surely that is going a bit too far."

He looked up at me, his dark eyes fairly glowing. "Believe me, Watson, there is no possible way I can go too far where that fellow is concerned."

That was a marked change from his tolerant amusement of yesterday towards our guest. Clearly, I had missed something that had happened at some point during the night. "I'm not helping you destroy the man's property," I told him firmly, "no matter what he may have said or done. No doubt he's a little trying -"

"Hah!"

"- but that doesn't give us the right to do anything as extreme as that, as you very well know."

He sat back on the carpet, crossing his legs under him. "I need answers, Watson. This case contains everything he owns, and I must learn more about him."

He sounded - I cast about for a word - obsessed. "What on earth has he done to you?" I finally asked.

Holmes looked past my shoulder with a resigned expression, and I turned to follow his gaze.

Stark was leaning against the door-jamb, clad only in my trousers, which left his upper body bare and gave an unhindered view of the strange light that was embedded in his chest. He was also barefoot and holding a handkerchief against his cheek. "I confused him, that's what," he said, inspecting the handkerchief, which held red flecks. It did not require any great feat of deduction to realize that he had cut himself shaving. "And you really shouldn't mess with that thing," he added, jerking his chin towards the armour case.

Holmes looked up at him, not moving. "How does it open?"

"It wouldn't help you any if I told you."

"Try me."

"Holmes," I interjected. "Can't this wait until after breakfast?"

They both ignored me. Holmes stared at Stark in the same way he watched his chemical experiments. Stark looked at him with a lopsided grin.

I cleared my throat.

Stark took a breath. "Okay, I wouldn't leave this alone either if I were you. All right. Its mechanism is voice-activated. Basically, I tell it to open. It recognizes my voice and opens by itself. Nobody else can activate it. There is no other way to open it." He scowled at the blood spots. "And it has self-defense capabilities, so if you try to open it by force, be prepared to get zapped." He looked at Holmes, grinning. "Now that that's out of the way, can we have coffee now?"

* * *

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 5

**A****uthor's Note:** Thanks for the feedback! Chapter rating: PG. No sex in this one.

* * *

**Chapter V**

- Watson -

An uneasy cease-fire seemed to settle over 221b after the events of the first morning. Holmes seemingly gave up on his attempts of opening Stark's armour case, even though I saw him cast dark glances at the thing from time to time. As for our guest, he seemed content to go back to the book he had begun to read the day before, smirking at Holmes whenever their eyes met.

The distinct impression that something had happened between the two of them that I was not meant to be privy to increased with each passing hour.

Holmes was between cases, which normally was a cause for worry on my part, for it invariably resulted in a period spent in various states of intoxication for my friend. This time, however, he had something, or rather someone, with whom to occupy his mind, which was one reason at least to be grateful for Stark's presence.

Far from letting himself fall into one of his black moods, Holmes was alert and full of nervous energy, and it was almost amusing to see how wary he was around our guest, constantly watching him, and now and then engaging him in cryptic conversation as if devising verbal experiments.

One such conversation went thus:

"You are not a ventriloquist, Stark."

"Good God, no."

"Then what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." This was accompanied by a smile I can only call impish, whereupon Stark went back to his book and Holmes went back to scowling.

Another conversation, this one much longer, had the same topic, as it turned out.

Holmes had spent some minutes shifting his attention back and forth between the armour case and the helmet that Stark had, for some reason, taken out of the case and positioned upon our table. After a while, he rose and lifted the helmet, holding it in one hand like Hamlet the skull and peering at its eyeslits with an air of deep suspicion. Then he turned it, peered inside, shook it slightly, and otherwise examined it. I kept expecting him to lick it.

Stark leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head, looking supremely insouciant. "No way, Holmes. No way."

There was a pause. Then Holmes put the helmet back onto the table and said casually, "I wonder what happens if I put a drop of nitrohydrochloric acid on it. Apart from the alloy becoming oxidised, I mean."

Stark straightened. "The alloy would become oxidised, that's what would happen. Depending on the extent of the damage, the helmet might lose its structural integrity. But that would take a lot of acid, more than you have on hand, I'd wager. Apart from that, nothing would happen."

"It wouldn't, say, scream?"

That seemed to surprise Stark. "It's not alive, Holmes."

My friend made an impatient gesture. "I know that. Still, I heard it talk. Why shouldn't it be capable of screaming?"

"It wouldn't scream."

"Why not?"

Stark looked at him, then smiled slowly. "Very clever, but I'm not telling you the basic principles of its functions by answering that question."

"I hope you don't blame me for trying, though." Holmes looked at Stark, then smiled a calculating smile, and I suddenly realised that the two of them were very similar, not only physically - both geniuses, both stubborn, both determined to get to the truth.

And I knew, as Stark no doubt was realising as well, that Holmes would not let this go.

This was borne out a few minutes later. "I think," Holmes said slowly, nodding at the helmet, "that you had best put the thing into the case, where it belongs."

"Why?" Stark demanded, putting his book down once more. "It's not in the way, is it?"

"The matter is very simple." Now Holmes was the one leaning back in his chair, seemingly at ease and giving every impression of holding the upper hand. "You refuse to tell me exactly what this thing is. We both know it is more than just a helmet. As long as I don't know what it is and what it can do, I cannot allow it to be in the room with us. I know that it can talk. I heard it respond to your words. That implies that it can also listen, and possibly repeat what it hears. I have professional secrecy to maintain. So has Watson. Your invention, Stark, is threatening that."

Stark grimaced. "You have a point, I guess."

"Of course I do. Now, you either tell me what I want to know, or the thing goes into the case and stays there."

Stark scowled. "I thought I'd made it clear that I can't tell you anything. You know too much as it is."

"Will learning more make a difference, then?"

There was a pause, during which Stark chewed his lower lip, frowning. "I guess not," he finally said. Then he turned to me. "Don't take notes, Watson. The fate of the world depends on this not leaving this room."

I could not tell whether he was joking or not, but I raised my hands to indicate that my writing implements were nowhere near. "The world is safe from my writerly influence," I declared solemnly.

He winked at me before turning back to Holmes. "Okay. I suppose even if you did know, there's no chance in hell that you could duplicate it. The technology won't be invented for several decades. But I'd just like to mention for the record that you're cute when you're confronted with a problem you can't solve, Holmes, and it's a damned pity to end it."

Holmes snorted, then made an impatient gesture. "Get on with it, Stark."

Our guest grinned suddenly. "You know, I think I'll just let it speak for itself. Jarvis, you have permission to participate in the conversation, seein' as it's about you 'n all."

"Yes, sir," a strange voice replied. It seemed to emanate from the helmet, speaking in a pleasant tenor with an undeniably British accent and was different in every respect from Stark's. "I doubt the wisdom of this decision, however."

Stark nodded. "So noted. I think we left wisdom behind a while ago, along with common sense."

I fear that I was gaping like a fish. Holmes, who had never allowed surprise to immobilise him, was out of his chair in an instant and had seized the helmet to stare at it. "No moving parts," he muttered to himself, "nothing that resembles a voice box. No air ducts. How does it work?"

"Jarvis, tell him."

"My speech capabilities consist of a Stark speech recognition system and a variety of syntax, rhetoric, prosodic, and emotion subroutines working in conjunction with a Stark speech synthesizer," the helmet said to my continued amazement. "That is the short explanation."

Holmes was turning the helmet about while it talked. His expression was one of utter delight. "I don't think we need the long explanation," he said, turning the helmet so it 'looked' at him. "Would you mind if I test you, Jarvis?"

"Not at all, sir."

"I'll give you an equation. The solution is a word. 'A light brown colour' plus 'to leave' equals a dance."

The answer came immediately. "Tango, sir."

Stark grinned. "That particular dance in a certain spatial alignment equals what, Jarvis?"

"Your favorite leisure activity, sir."

"That's fiddling with my armour."

"Your other favorite leisure activity, then, sir. Horizontal tango. Sex."

Stark preened. "Jarvis is fully conversant, and by that I mean he understands all nuances of human speech as well as anybody. Gotta admit I'm particularly proud of the sarcasm subroutines."

"I certainly need those for keeping up with you, sir."

Holmes was as fascinated as I had ever seen him. "This is amazing, Stark. If that is what the future holds, then I can only hope that it will get to us soon."

"Well, I'm afraid that I won't develop this particular system until 2003, and it's the only one of its kind even in my time. So no, you won't get to have one of those in your lifetime."

"There's nothing like it in development," I finally joined the conversation. "I've read about somebody experimenting with bellows and artificial heads, but this is surely something entirely different in principle."

"These primitive efforts are as far beneath me as you are above unicellular creatures, sir," the helmet informed us loftily.

"Yeah, yeah, Jarvis, you're pretty cool," Stark interjected. "Now stop bragging, please."

I could not help it. I laughed. The way Stark talked with his creation as if it were a human being, for some reason, tickled my funny bone. Even Holmes was smiling.

Stark smiled back. "Well, now that the ice is finally broken, how about we re-negotiate the sleeping arrangements?"

Holmes and I looked at each other and groaned.

* * *

As the day wore on, it increasingly seemed to me as if Holmes was trying to keep me from being alone with Stark, which reinforced my impression that something had happened between them that I was not meant to know. I resolved to do some sleuthing of my own as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Unfortunately, Holmes was not to be budged from the sitting room. He had found a new toy in Jarvis, the 'artificial intelligence' as we had learned was the term, and Stark, who had nowhere else to go, stayed close warily. I assume he still suspected that Holmes might subject the helmet to acid treatments after all, and, knowing my friend, I fear that those suspicions were not all that far-fetched.

"What is the meaning of life?" I heard Holmes ask as I was trying to get my notes into some sort of order.

"Finding happiness," I supplied, even though I knew I was not the one he had asked.

Holmes nodded thoughtfully, but I could tell that this answer did not satisfy him.

"To evolve," Jarvis answered.

This garnered the helmet an approving nod from Holmes. "Certainly one way to look at it."

I looked at Stark, fully expecting him to say something involving sex.

But he surprised me. "Doing the right thing. Making a difference."

Holmes looked away briefly in the manner that told me that he, too, was surprised. Obviously, we had both underestimated our guest. "There are unexplored depths about you, Stark," Holmes admitted.

"Told you I can multitask," Stark replied, deadpan. "I can do philosophy while undressing you with my eyes. And you're always welcome to explore my depths."

This time, we merely shook our heads.

* * *

The opportunity to talk with Stark alone finally came when Holmes announced that he needed a book from the British Museum, and that he would enjoy a walk instead of sending for it. With hindsight, that should have made me suspicious, but at the time, I attributed this unusual surge of energy on Holmes' part to the grating effect our guest must be having upon him.

The front door had hardly closed when Stark looked at me searchingly. "So, Watson," he said with his usual disregard for my prefix, "what do you make of the curious case of the jealous detective?"

"He's not jealous," I protested. "He's merely -"

"Oh, he is jealous, all right," Stark cut me off. "Trust me, I've caused enough jealousy in my time to know what it looks like. If I did what I feel like doing to you, I'd better be prepared to armour up as soon as he's on the scene, or else lose all my front teeth."

"That is impossible, "I sputtered. "I'm sure that he has no such -, I mean, he would never -" I gathered myself. "He'd defend me, I'll grant you that, but not out of any personal interest in my - in me."

Stark laughed. "Oh, that is too cute. You blush like a virgin. You're not a virgin, are you?"

"Stark..."

"Well, if you are, then you'd better remedy that, you know. One of you at least should know what he's doing. As it happens, I can give you expert advice and hands-on demonstrations."

"Stop it."

"At least admit that you've thought about it. You and him, hot and sweaty. I'll bet he's a revelation in bed, once he lets loose. All that pent up passion. Great body, too." He sighed. "I wouldn't mind sampling that myself."

"You will keep your hands off him," I ground out in a voice I hardly recognized as my own.

He looked at me, smiling widely. "Good, good. You do want him. You can't bear the thought of me poaching on your grounds. Well, tiger, I'll be here for another twenty-six days, and believe me, I won't need half that time to get him into bed with me, so you'd better get proactive."

I threw up my hands, thoroughly out of my depth by now. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"First, you've got to know the basics."

"I do know the basics," I grated. "I'm an ex-army man."

"That doesn't count. I'm not talkin' about the old insert slot A into tab B here. This is about the serious stuff, not about quick stress relief in the trenches. When was the last time you had sex with a man, in a bed?"

I tried to gather my thoughts, which was becoming harder with each passing second. "I don't know. Years, certainly."

"There you are. A refresher course is definitely indicated. So, you, me, sex?" He rose from his chair as if I had already answered in the affirmative. "Good. Let's get up to your room, then."

"Stark, I don't know if that's -"

"It's an excellent idea," he interrupted me, pulling me to my feet. Then he looked at me from up close. "God, you're hot," he said fervently. "I deserve a medal for the restraint I've shown so far." He moved even closer, and I am certain that he was about to kiss me, when he was interrupted.

"Sir," the helmet said, "proximity alert."

Stark stepped back and looked around, dropping his carefree manner and turning into something resembling a battle-ready soldier in an instant. "Report."

"A single human life sign, behind the door, sir. Sir, it's -"

Stark groaned. "Holmes, why don't you come in?"

* * *

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 6

Author's Note: No sex in this one. Also, Watson threw a spanner in my plans.

Warnings: POV change, violence (not graphic).

* * *

**Chapter 6**

- Holmes -

If you expect a situation to occur, then you do well to orchestrate its occurrence on your terms, lest its unexpected occurrence surprise you. It is a rule I have often had occasion to follow to my advantage, and so it is now.

The view through the keyhole is not as clear and encompassing as I would have liked, but it will do. I need information. They have stopped talking, which requires visual supplementation of data.

I watch them move close. Stark raises his arms towards Watson's face. Given Stark's recent behaviour, only one conclusion is possible: They are going to kiss. My reaction is strong and visceral – surprisingly so. I fight to suppress it. My mind must be clear. I struggle not think about what they are doing and why, because it will not happen. I have orchestrated this situation with the express intention of preventing it.

He will not touch my Watson. First – and only – point of attack: chest implant. Incapacitated. Recovery time: two minutes.

* * *

- Watson -

"Holmes, why don't you come in?"

Stark had barely stopped speaking when the door was pushed open with incredible force; Holmes came barrelling through it borne upon one of those tremendous bursts of speed and strength with which I was familiar from watching him in the boxing ring, and his expression was set with the same intense determination I had witnessed there.

I had hardly time to yell his name before he directed a kick at Stark, who had brought his fists up, ready to defend against a blow. The kick went under Stark's cover and connected with his chest, and he went flying, eyes wide, landing sprawled upon the chair upon which he had been sitting. He gave a choked groan and went limp.

"Holmes," I yelled, "what is the meaning of this?" Unbidden, the words Stark had said came back to me. 'Jealous', I thought. 'He really is jealous.'

My friend had dismissed his fallen opponent and turned to grab me by the shoulders. "Watson –"

Then something happened which took even Holmes by surprise.

In less time than it takes to read this, Stark's armour case snapped open, the helmet's eyeslits began to glow, and then the armour case fell apart into individual metal pieces that flew towards Stark as if moved by a ghostly hand. The helmet, too, moved under its own power, and while we were still staring and trying to comprehend what we were seeing, the red and gold metal pieces, amidst whirring and snapping sounds, assembled around Stark's unmoving body into the armour in which we had first met him.

Holmes moved to stand in front of me in a defensive stance.

"Holmes!" I cried, thinking he was about to attack again. "Don't!"

The armoured form continued to lie motionless, and Holmes hesitated. "No point of attack," I heard him mutter.

"Please stand down," came the voice we had learned belonged to Jarvis, the artificial intelligence. The helmet's eyes were still glowing, even if the armour itself remained motionless. "Stand down, or I will be forced to defend Mr. Stark."

Holmes was still tense, and I put my hand upon his shoulder from behind, thinking to bring his mind back from whatever fugue state it had descended to that had prompted him to act in such a violent manner. "Holmes," I said forcefully, "stop it." I stepped away and approached the armour, one hand held out towards it, and one towards Holmes. "You too, Jarvis. There will be no fighting in our rooms."

"Mr. Stark's medical condition is precarious," Jarvis responded. "I will take all necessary steps to protect him from further harm."

"Precarious," Holmes echoed, finally relaxing his belligerent posture. "I – that was not my intention. I merely wished to incapacitate him." He looked away abruptly, then turned his back on Stark and moved to the far side of the room.

I looked after him helplessly, then turned back to the armoured form. "No further harm will come to him," I said firmly, briefly directing an ineffectual glare at Holmes' back before addressing the armour that was still lying like a broken toy soldier across Holmes' chair. "I'm a doctor. Please let me take care of him." If I felt silly talking to a metal suit of armour, that feeling was outweighed by the urgency of the situation.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," the disembodied voice replied, "but I must follow standard procedure until Mr. Stark regains consciousness."

I stepped close and knelt down next to the armour, half expecting to be attacked and not caring. "He needs air, Jarvis," I reasoned with the expressionless faceplate. The metal parts interlocked tightly as far as I could see. There were no obvious openings. "This armour looks quite air-tight…"

"I am administering oxygenised air," the armour responded, and again I realised how far this contraption was removed from anything with which I was familiar.

Still, my medical instincts would not let me simply turn the patient over to the care of an inanimate object. My very being rebelled against the concept. "I need to take his pulse, monitor his breathing, see if he has internal injuries." These last words caused me to direct another glare at Holmes, who had picked up his violin and was plucking at it disjointedly.

"Mr. Stark's pulse is eighty-five beats per minute; heartbeat irregular. His blood pressure is ninety-seven over forty-nine. His body temperature is thirty-five point seven degrees Celsius." There was a pause. "There is also slight bleeding around the arc reactor socket. I would appreciate medical advice." Was that an undertone of helplessness?

"Then let me tend to him, Jarvis," I said intently, marvelling at the range of emotion I could hear in the artificial voice. "It sounds like he is in shock, and I can treat that. I know it's difficult to trust virtual strangers, but I am a doctor. I can help him."

There was another pause, and I wondered whether this artificial mind even understood the concept of trust despite what we had witnessed before; I wondered at the reason for Holmes' attack, and whether it really had been caused by jealousy, and I marvelled at the miracle that was this amazing armour. Finally, with a hiss, the faceplate opened and slid upon the top of the helmet, revealing Stark's face. His eyes were closed; his face was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat, and his lips were tinged blue.

"Does he have a history of heart trouble?" I asked, going with the first thought that came to me.

"Indeed, Doctor. His heart was injured during an explosion. There is shrapnel still embedded in his pericardium. The reactor in his chest generates a magnetic field that keeps it in place."

"Well," Holmes said from behind me, "he might have mentioned that little fact before, then he wouldn't be in this position now."

"Shut up, Holmes," I said calmly. "Jarvis, I need you to open up the armour so I can move him."

"Where do you wish to move him, Doctor?"

"My bed," I said at the same time as Holmes said, "The sofa."

I turned my head and glared at Holmes, who looked back at me with raised eyebrows.

"That's so sweet of you, Watson," Stark's faint voice came, "but I get the feeling that your buddy might have something to say about that."

When I looked back, he was already sitting up. Without thinking, I put my hand upon his shoulder to push him back down, but he completed the movement, easily overcoming my resistance, the armour whirring and obviously aiding his strength, until he sat upright. "You should rest," I said, more to myself than to him, frustrated.

He ignored me, putting a gauntleted hand against his chest while looking at Holmes. "Ow. You kick like a mule."

Holmes was as difficult to read as I had ever seen him. "And you flirt like a molly-boy."

Stark nodded agreeably. He was, I had to admit, looking better by the second. "Guilty as charged. You were expecting this to happen."

"I anticipated something like it, yes." Holmes showed no signs of contrition, but then again, I did not really expect him to.

Stark nodded again. "I see. You never left. Very clever, even though I should have expected something like that out of you. Well, I'd say you two have a lot to talk about. I'll be downstairs, shovelling coals or something. Jarvis, crisis's over. Disassemble."

The armour flew apart in the same incomprehensible manner as it had come together, the pieces falling down at Stark's feet and re-assembling to form the familiar case. The sight thoroughly distracted me from any medical remonstrance I might have wanted to utter, and then Stark already sauntered past Holmes, giving him a pointed berth, and left the room, humming a victory tune.

I found it quite remarkable how that man could construe a situation that had very nearly cost him his life as a victory, and proceeded to say so.

Holmes ignored my remark, staring at me in a manner that I quickly found disconcerting, and it helped fuel my indignation that had merely been banked by the medical emergency.

"What on earth were you thinking?" I burst out. "Surely, attacking the man like that was more than a bit extreme! Whatever did he do to warrant such a measure?"

He continued to stare, then he looked away. "I won't let that man be all over you, Watson," he grated out, "and you shouldn't be so amenable to his advances either. Show some restraint, man."

Suddenly, my belly was full of heat. "I'll thank you to trust me to make my own decisions in these matters, Holmes," I returned sharply. "I'm a grown man. And after all, it's not as if it is of any interest to you."

He turned back to me and looked at me with a most peculiar expression. "Oh, is that your conclusion?"

"I certainly have no reason to reach any other conclusion," I snapped, "Mr. I-have-no-need-for-the-softer-emotions. You're merely annoyed because Stark is as smart as you are, and because you cannot fathom his invention and have no hope of even understanding it. Well, welcome to the rest of humanity."

He glared. "You're wrong, Doctor, but then again, that is not so unusual, is it?"

"Oh, now we're back to that," I fumed. "Well, excuse me for being such a dim-witted fellow, but at least I remember to dress appropriately, or to take my revolver when heading into danger."

There was a pause, then Holmes turned on his heel and went to the door. "I can see that there is no reasoning with you right now, Watson. I'll try again when you've cooled off."

"Where are you going?" I demanded, even though I knew the answer well enough. He was showing all the signs of being in need of letting off some steam himself, and there was only one place he used for that.

And neither did he tell me. "Don't expect me back until breakfast tomorrow."

* * *

Tony Stark smiled his most charming smile as he entered the landlady's kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson. Mind if I keep you company for a bit?" She wasn't really his type - too old, too motherly, not attractive enough, but he was enough of a strategist to know to always make friends with the driving forces behind the curtain, as it were. Especially when he was stranded like this.

She smiled, surprised at his presence in her realm, which turned into a concerned frown as she took in his appearance. "Not at all, but you're looking a little out of sorts, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Stark."

The pain in his chest had receded, so Tony chose to dismiss his near heart attack. After all, he'd had much worse during battle. "Nothing that a stiff drink won't fix," he said easily, looking at her hopefully.

She ignored the unspoken plea with the ease of what appeared to Tony to be long practice. "Has he got on your nerves already?" she asked instead.

Tony didn't need to ask who "he" was, and he grinned at her long-suffering tone. Quite an interesting picture of the Great Detective was emerging here. "We got on one another's nerves, I got what I had coming, and then I figured a strategic retreat was in order." He was looking forward to viewing Jarvis' recordings of what was surely going on upstairs right now between his two hosts. 'Talk about giving a little hint,' he thought, amused. 'If that didn't get the boys on the right track, I don't know what will.'

In the meantime, he'd just make himself useful down here. As he looked around the kitchen, he spotted at least half a dozen things that could benefit from slight but significant tinkering, starting from anti-calcification magnets attached to the pipes to applying a self-cleaning, reflective coating to the inner oven surfaces, improving sensitivity of the kitchen scale, and even putting insulation on the windows. 'As long as I keep to contemporary materials, I should be fine,' he reasoned.

Mrs. Hudson put a cup of tea in front of him. "Mr. Holmes isn't the most pleasant of tenants, and that is putting it mildly," she said, clearly in the mood for bitching.

Well, Tony could play best friend as well as the next woman, as long as he learned the odd interesting fact. He pulled the kitchen scale towards him and began disassembling it. "Really? And here I thought he was such a nice, serene man..."

Mrs. Hudson gave an unladylike snort.

That was when they both heard somebody descend the stairs and leave via the front door.

Tony frowned. That wasn't on the agenda. They were supposed to be making out, and one of them leaving wouldn't exactly be conducive to that. "Was that...?"

"That was Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said knowledgeably. "Dr. Watson always stops in front of the hallway mirror to make sure his attire is in order before going out."

Tony sighed. So much for his matchmaking abilities. Well, he had twenty-six more days.

* * *

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks for the copious feedback, guys. You're a delight to write for.

Chapter Warnings: POV change, adult situations. Homosexual happenings, off-camera. Nothing explicit.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"So," Tony said briskly as he re-entered the living room, startling Watson who had immersed himself in the newspaper, "seems like the coast is clear at last. Care to pick up where we were so rudely interrupted?"

The man looked at Tony with a set expression that slowly turned into a smile (a smile that struck Tony a little sarcastic), then he settled back more comfortably into his chair. "I suppose you're being this obnoxious merely as a way of passing the time," he said, clearly in no mood to take Tony up on his offer.

Tony shrugged mentally and flopped into the other chair, the one customarily occupied by Holmes. "Well," he said, "if you're implying that I'm doing all this to avoid going stir crazy, then you'd be right. I'm cooped up in these -" he did a quick mental calculation - "sixty-seven square meters of clutter and antiques, together with two very hot men, and I have nothing to do. Literally nothing, except kill time. Since I'm not blind, and since it's been more than twenty-four hours since I last got any, I tend to get stuck on certain ideas."

Watson folded his paper and let it drop to the floor next to his chair. "There are many people who would relish the chance to just relax."

"Well, not me," Tony sighed. There was something digging into his butt, and he reached behind himself to fish it out of the upholstery. "I'm CEO of a multi-national company with several hundred thousand employees. I invent and design things that my competition isn't even dreaming of." The butt poker turned out to be a pipe. "Plus I save the world several times a week. That means I get bored whenever I'm not doing at least six things at once. And believe me, I'm very, very, _very_ bored right now." He held the pipe up to his face and examined it idly.

There was a funny little smile on Watson's face. "The similarity really is uncanny," he said, as if to himself.

Tony threw him a look and put the pipe onto the side table. "Yeah, I noticed that too. If I get even more bored, I might look into the genealogy of his family, see if I can find a connection somewhere. But most likely, it's just coincidence. There's only so much genetic variation, after all." His mind wasn't really on the topic. Instead, he was contemplating the male fashion of the late 1800s and how it emphasized Watson's physique. Very nice. Very nice indeed. He hoped Jarvis was getting good footage. Rather than ask the A.I and draw Watson's attention to the potential eavesdropper, he reached out to adjust the helmet's position on the table.

"Well, there are other things you could be doing," Watson persisted, paying Tony's spying efforts no heed. "Things that do not involve getting us all in jail."

'That waistcoat really draws the eye nicely to the joystick', Tony thought, distracted. "Yeah, like what?"

"I have no idea, but I'm sure you would find something if you tried hard enough."

With an effort, Tony tore his gaze away and directed it to the opposite wall, which was clearly showing signs of indoor target practice. "You're right," he said, jerking his chin towards the V.R. done in bullet marks. "I could put a T S next to that, for ee gee."

"Things that do not involve damaging our property," Watson returned imperturbably.

"And things that do not involve corrupting the timeline any more than I already have," Tony objected, "which limits me to indoor activities. Let's face it, Watson, the three of us having mind-blowing sex behind closed doors and shuttered windows all day long really is the only sensible option. Plus, it's good for the complexion."

But Watson was more stubborn than Tony had expected. "You could develop a new pastime, such as painting. That's an indoor activity, and nicely non-destructive."

Tony batted his eyelashes at him. "I don't paint."

"You could learn." Watson was annoyingly unmoved.

"Sure, but I don't need to learn how to give you a blow-job that'll make your brains dribble out of your ears," Tony said, letting his voice drop to its lowest register. "I could do it right here, right now."

His directness visibly made Watson lose the train of his thought for a second.

Sensing weakness, Tony moved in for the kill. "Or you could screw me, nice and slow, imagining I am Holmes."

Watson shifted in his chair, and Tony knew enough not to grin victoriously. Not yet.

"And then you could watch me doing the nasty with Holmes. I bet you've thought about that - me and him in bed. You're a writer, after all. Imagination is your stock-in-trade. Think about it - me going down on him, and him losing control at last, 'cause I'm just that good. I bet you've always wanted to see him lose it."

Watson's face was nicely flushed by now. "Stop it," he said hoarsely.

Now, Tony did allow himself a grin. "You could try shutting me up with a kiss. No, I'll do one better. I'll shut myself up with a kiss." With that, he was out of his chair and leaning over Watson.

The doctor tensed, but he said or did nothing to prevent him.

Tony didn't give him time to change his mind, leaned in, and touched his lips to Watson's.

There was a moment of resistance, but Tony was an experienced kisser. He knew when to wait and go gently, when to press in, and how to coax out hidden passions. It helped that, in this case, said hidden passions weren't too far beneath the surface.

When he finally let up, there was no more resistance. "I suggest we move this party to your bedroom," Tony breathed in his most seductive cadence, which was pretty damn seductive.

Watson nodded dazedly, and Tony grinned. One down, one to go.

* * *

- Watson -

Stark left my bed and my room within minutes after he was finished wrecking my sheets and my self-esteem, taking with him the helmet that he had insisted on bringing for some undisclosed reason, and leaving me to my own thoughts.

I wish I could say that I resented him and what he did, or that he worked his wiles against my will and despite my protests. But the damning truth is that I enjoyed every minute, and yes, I did think about my friend Holmes more than about the man with whom I was lying, which made my shame complete.

Despite the physical similarities between Holmes and our guest, I was never in danger of confusing Stark with my friend. Apart from his distinctive beard, there also was that strange implant in his chest, hard to ignore in close contact, and, perhaps most telling of all, there was the way Stark was as open and shameless about the workings of the body as Holmes – I was convinced – was reticent. No, I never could make myself completely believe that it was Holmes who was drawing such outrageous pleasures from my body, but that did not change the fact that I tried.

But most damning of all was the fact that I was already looking forward to the time when we next could resume our deviant activities.

I do not know how long I lay awake, pondering my situation and complete debauchery. Finally, I heard the front door being unlocked and locked again, and I knew that Holmes had come home from wherever he had spent the evening and most of the night. I felt myself grow tense, despite my weariness. There was a high probability that he would know what had happened within minutes of his arrival. Should I go downstairs to protect Stark from another attack? Or should I hope that, for once, my friend would remain ignorant of past events, and consequently not draw attention to them by making an appearance?

In the end, I decided to wait until breakfast for Holmes' inevitable realisation. Stark was a grown man. He had brought whatever was happening now upon himself. And after all, it was not as if I owed Holmes my fidelity.

* * *

Sated and content, Tony had fallen into a deep sleep that was interrupted by the sound of someone lighting a match. Since Tony was a non-smoker, that sound, for him, had connotations of an explosive about to go off rather than a comfortable pipe being lit, so he was awake immediately.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting cross-legged in his chair, busy getting his pipe (the same one that Tony had dug out of the upholstery earlier) drawing satisfactorily, and watching the sofa where Tony had curled up.

Tony figured that the Great Detective must have sniffed out that Tony had not stayed away from his best buddy. The fact that Tony was still alive, still had a full set of teeth, and was breathing without effort told him that he was in no immediate danger. He stretched and sat up, yawning. "What's up, Holmes?"

Dark eyes, so similar to his, fixed him with what the writers of yore had liked to call a withering stare. "I am in the process of ascertaining whether you have a death wish, or whether my assessment of your intelligence was completely off."

Tony grinned. He'd probably never been insulted quite so artfully. "Move your feet, lose your seat," he quipped, unrepentant.

"You do have a death wish."

"Oh, that mean that you don't doubt my intelligence after all? I'm flattered." Tony reined in his sarcasm. "Look, we both know that it means nothing in the long run. I'll be gone, and you'll have him all to yourself again. But talking about intelligence or the lack thereof, I gotta wonder why you two never got it on before I got here. I mean, really. Watson's a dish. And you're a great observer. You must have noticed."

Holmes' face might as well be carved from granite for all the movement of his features. Tony wondered whether his own face could manage to look so stony. "That is no concern of yours."

"Granted. Normally. But I'm here now." He gestured. "Oh come on, Holmes. I gave you such a perfect opening, laid all the groundwork, and then you walk away? What do I need to do to get you to follow through? Undress him and tie a red bow around his -"

"There's no need to be crass, Stark."

Tony blinked. Was Holmes embarrassed? "Neck," he said gently. "I was going to say neck."

Holmes _was_ embarrassed, Tony decided. Those little glances to the side and up, as if he were unable to hold Tony's gaze, were very telling.

And suddenly, the whole picture emerged, and Tony could only hold his grin back with an effort. "My God," he said softly, "you're a virgin. You have no idea what to do with a man. Or a woman, am I right?"

Holmes' silence was all the confirmation Tony needed.

He leaned back. "Well. To use a cliché, you're lucky to have met me."

*****


	7. Chapter 8

**Chapter rating:** R

**Chapter warnings:** POV change, hinky science, some swearing, erotic and homoerotic situations

**Author's Note: **Thanks everyone for your comments and reviews. This is the final chapter; I hope you'll like it.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

To Tony's surprise, Sherlock Holmes advanced no objection to the concept of male sex per se. Instead, he genuinely seemed to entertain the notion, given the controlled-panicky way he was looking at Tony that made him want to both snicker and ruffle Holmes' hair. He did neither. This was a proud man, and if Tony wanted to get anywhere, accomplish anything, he needed to not take him out of his comfort zone any more than was absolutely necessary.

"I think we can do this in a purely theoretical manner," the detective said in an obvious effort to get out of a situation that must be supremely uncomfortable for him as it was. "A practical demonstration is hardly necessary for such a base activity."

Tony suppressed another smile. "I don't doubt you'd get all the information you think you need from an illustrated diagram on erogenous zones and the mechanics of male sex, but there's more to it than theoretical knowledge."

The detective looked supremely skeptical. "Nevertheless, it is what I would prefer."

"Holmes," Tony said earnestly, "if you've never done this before, then a trial run is highly advisable, believe me. Watson obviously means a lot to you. Your first time together should not be a complete disaster. You certainly don't want to freak out at the wrong moment."

"I would never 'freak out'."

"If you've never had your hand on another man's dick before, you most certainly will."

Holmes stared at him. "I have faced armed criminals. I hardly suppose that touching a nude body would be sufficient to distress me."

"That's not the same thing. The object of that sort of confrontation is not victory." Tony looked at him, smirking. "Allow me to demonstrate." Then he got up and began to shuck his clothes.

As he'd expected, Holmes' eyes briefly flicked away as soon as he dropped his pants. (He was going commando.)

"Holmes," he said gently, "look at me."

The eyes that met his were stony, with an underlying wildness that made Tony doubt, for the first time, that this had been a good idea. Oh well, too late now.

"Now touch me."

But despite his misgivings, there was none of the deliberate misunderstandings that might have followed this demand in anyone less courageous. Holmes merely nodded, reached out his hand, and grabbed Tony's dick. Then he froze. They held this unlikely tableau for a moment, and just when Tony was about to make an off-color remark, Holmes said, in an abstracted way, "I see."

Tony felt himself begin to respond, despite his recent sexual acrobatics with Watson (and boy had that been enthusiastic on both their parts). After all, this was Sherlock Holmes touching him. The mere thought apparently was enough to get even his rather jaded sexual appetite going. "Can you imagine me doing the same to you?" he asked hopefully.

Holmes did not change his expression, and still Tony got a sense of impenetrable walls going down, and Holmes removed his hand. "As much as I admire you, Stark, you are not going to be the first man who touches me like that."

That was an argument Tony could accept. He himself had pointed out that Holmes' first time with Watson should be special. "Okay, so you try things on me and see how they work. I'll just go lie down and you experiment." And he'd hope like hell that the detectives' curiosity would end up getting Tony some opportunity for hands-on demonstrations as well.

There was a brief argument about the merits of the bed versus those of the sofa, which Holmes ended by pointing out that the bed was reserved for him and Watson, and Tony reflected wryly that there was something very endearing about the man's territoriality. However, he finally found himself lying naked on the sofa, with Holmes' intense dark gaze fixed on him.

"Well, go ahead," Tony said encouragingly when Holmes didn't move. "I promise I won't budge."

Holmes nodded, reached out and ran his hand over Tony's chest, staring at the ARC reactor for a while before moving his hand further south. Tony could sense the detective's brief distraction over the device embedded in his chest, but they were on a mission of sorts, and Holmes finally directed his attention to the goal of this hands-on demonstration, much to Tony's relief.

By now, he was visibly aroused. Holmes inspected his engorged organ with the same clinical attention he might give a dead body, which amused Tony no end, and, because he would be the first to admit that he was a slut, also aroused him further.

"I am not doing anything," Holmes commented. "Why are you reacting so strongly?"

"I'm imagining all the things you might do," Tony said, raising his arms and linking his hands behind his head. "I'm anticipating what it will feel like. I have a pretty fertile imagination."

"Then a mere fancy is sufficient to cause a physical reaction," Holmes mused. "That is interesting."

"If you have the experience, yes. It also helps if you've got a dirty mind."

"What, precisely, are you imagining?"

'I don't believe it,' Tony thought. 'He's actually talking dirty to me.' "I'd rather not give you ideas," he evaded. "This is about you learning, not about me influencing you with my fantasies. Just… go ahead and do something. Anything."

"Very well." Holmes reached out his left hand, encircled Tony's member in a firm, warm grip, and proceeded to move his fingers.

Tony's breath stalled. "That's… actually pretty good," he managed, pleasure coiling sharply. 'Violinist. Manual dexterity. Oh God.'

"How does it feel?" Holmes asked intently.

'Ecstatic, but that won't tell you anything.' "I could show you."

"We've been over this."

"You're making this unnecessarily complicated."

"Nevertheless."

The movements did not stop. Tony was squirming with need. "Well, then touch yourself if you won't let me do it. It's the only – ahhh – the only way to learn the effect your touch has."

Holmes seemed to concede this point, because he undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants, one-handed, while Tony took deep breaths to calm himself at least a little bit. The mere thought that Holmes would now to do himself what he was doing to Tony was nearly enough to induce a melt-down.

Then things got even worse when he watched Holmes' stony face slowly dissolve into an expression of astonished delight. "Pretty good, huh?" Tony managed. His breath was growing short. His toes were curling.

"I had not… anticipated that…" Then the detective's eyes fluttered closed in something that was as close to rapture as Tony had ever seen.

That was when the coiled spring in Tony's loins released, and he barely managed to hold back a shout as he spurted semen over Holmes' hand and his own stomach. Holmes watched him, his expression now a mixture of ecstasy and wonder tinged with faint disgust, but before Tony could summon his higher brain functions and make a witty remark, Holmes curled in on himself and gave a long, drawn-out moan.

For a minute or so, their slowing breathing was the only sound in the room. Tony felt his usual post-coital upsurge of need for physical contact and wondered whether Holmes was having a similar urge. But he did not say anything, thinking he already knew the answer and not wanting to hear a rejection.

Finally, Holmes roused himself, nodded at Tony, and left the room without another word.

Tony sighed. Well, what had he expected? "Jarvis," he said, cleaning himself up and putting the blanket back over himself, "you get all this?"

"Yes, sir. Editing and archiving as per previously established preferences."

"You're a doll."

* * *

- Watson -

The next morning, as I descended the stairs to our sitting-room, I felt my face heat up in shame at the mere thought of facing Holmes' all-seeing eyes and Stark's confounded smirk after last night's activities, even as I told myself that my reaction was unwarranted. For one thing, Holmes' own conduct hardly qualified him to criticise the behaviour of others, and for another thing, as much as I might wish it, neither did he have the right to be jealous. And finally, Stark's opinion mattered not one iota, and I would be perfectly within my rights to wipe the smirk right off his face. None of which helped, however, and I am certain that my face was beet-red as I greeted the two men.

Then my own shame was forgotten as a strong sense of déjà vue assaulted me when both turned to look at me. Something must have happened during the night, again. Holmes was looking… strange. There really was no better word for the slightly befuddled yet oddly exuberant air I detected when I looked at him. Stark, far from smirking, was looking a little tired and more than a little expectant.

I frowned but decided not to say anything about it, merely offering them a good morning as I seated myself at the breakfast table.

"And what are your plans for today, Watson?" Holmes asked after a minute of awkward silence.

"I need to do my rounds until noon, then I'm free," I said.

"Excellent," Holmes said, throwing a peculiar glance in Stark's direction.

Our guest grinned. "Don't worry, Holmes, I'll be downstairs. Lots of things to do. And your landlady has a killer sense of humour once you get her thawed out a little."

Another glance passed between them.

"Holmes," I said, unable to stand it any longer. "What's this all about?"

"I shall tell you later today, old boy," Holmes said, visibly composing himself.

By now, my imagination was running wild. "Should I be worried?"

He smiled. "Not at all, dear chap. Not at all."

* * *

When I returned from my round, I was surprised to find the blinds drawn and a single candle lit. Stark was nowhere in evidence. Holmes was sitting in his chair, clad only in shirt and trousers, looking pleased to see me.

"What's this about, Holmes?" I asked again, hanging my suit coat onto its hook, next to his.

He steepled his hands in front of himself, elbows resting upon the armrests of his chair. "I have a suggestion to make."

"A suggestion that requires drawn blinds?"

"Indeed."

"I think I should be worried after all."

"I think you should listen before you draw your inferences."

I tried to relax. "Very well. I'm listening."

He leaned back and directed his gaze into empty space, a mannerism that was by then as familiar to me as it had been disconcerting when I first met him. "I was obliged yesterday night to change my perspective upon a number of things," he began. "There is nothing quite so invigorating as having one's convictions challenged at every turn, but I pride myself upon my ability to adjust when circumstances demand it."

"Holmes," I sighed, "can you be a little less cryptic, please?"

He regarded me with a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "Very well. You have been exposed to the corrupting influence of our house guest just as I have. I more than once observed you being quite outraged at his innuendos. The obvious conjecture from your reaction is that you object to deviant activities on principle. Is that correct?"

I knew a moment of blinding relief mixed with breathless anticipation. "No," I said, smiling, "actually, it's quite false."

A fire seemed to light up in his eyes. "Really."

"Yes, Holmes. Really."

"How fortuitous." With that, he learned forward, put both his hands on my shoulders and regarded me with that intense concentration he normally bestowed on his chemical experiments.

But I was done with being patient. A new horizon had revealed itself to me, and I was eager to explore it. I hooked my hand around the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss.

He tasted of tobacco and other things, but I only had a brief moment to appreciate it before he had already disengaged and was working on the buttons of my collar and shirt. I moved to return the favour, infected by the same urgency that was obviously fuelling him.

"Holmes," I gasped between licking his collarbones and pulling his shirttails out of his trousers, "what brought this on? You were at least as adamant about not giving in to his suggestions as I was."

His unshaven chin scratching over my chest briefly distracted me from my thoughts. "I acquired missing data," he murmured against my nipple.

My fingers threaded themselves through his thick, coffee-coloured hair and held his head in place. "What does that mean? I told you to stop being cryptic." Then a thought struck. "Oh no. Did he – Holmes…?"

He gave me a bright smile that oddly enough reminded me of Stark. "Apparently, our guest made it his mission to turn us both into criminals, and like a good scientist, he opted for a practical demonstration."

That stopped me cold. "Holmes, did he…" I could practically feel my blood-pressure rise. "Has he sodomised you, Holmes? Because if he has, I shall cut him into very small pieces, damage to the timeline notwithstanding."

Holmes took a breath. "For some reason, I find this reaction of yours immensely stimulating."

"Holmes!"

He unbuttoned my fly in single-minded concentration, apparently content to torture me. "Yes, old boy?" Then his hand touched my body intimately, and I again lost the train of my thoughts. "You were saying?"

He was doing his best to distract me, but I have not spent some time in India for nothing. "Has Stark sodomised you?" I repeated, ignoring as best I could the curling of pleasure in my loins.

Instead of answering, he employed one of his Baritsu moves and manoeuvred us both onto the carpet, drawing me on top of him and kicking off his trousers. "He did not lay a hand on me, my dear Watson. I reasoned that this right should exclusively belong to you."

"I am glad," I replied, fervently.

"Would you really be moved to violence on my behalf?" he asked from where he was licking the scar in my shoulder.

"Most certainly," I replied, feeling my breath grow short. "You are mine."

This caused him to raise his head and look at me. "Really? On what grounds do you base this assertion?"

I kissed him, exuberantly. "I shall be the first man to touch you, and you shan't want anyone else after me."

He scowled at me. "That is a wild assumption that I shall not accept without proof."

I reached up and grabbed the bottle of lamp oil that had somehow found its way among the tea things. "Then I shall prove it to you." Something in his eyes, however, made me hesitate. "Don't worry. I shall be very gentle."

He snorted as if to let me know that such considerations were unnecessary, but I was undeterred. This first experience should not be anything but pleasant, for I was convinced that otherwise he would not repeat it. And so I took my time, even over his protests, until finally we were as close to each other as was physically possible.

Oh, how to describe the experience with mere words? How to explain the fact that this act that our society condemns as unnatural and illegal becomes elevated to something approaching sublime when committed with the person you love? Such were my thoughts as we both became irredeemable in the eyes of the law even as we reached a realm beyond human and legal considerations.

But it had to end, as everything ends, and we both finally returned to our bodies.

Holmes reached out to drag a blanket over us. "Don't move, Watson," he said softly. Then he hugged me close, made himself comfortable in my arms, and fell asleep.

* * *

"Are you certain that you'll find your way back, Stark?" Watson asked solicitously.

"Well," Tony said, "there's certainly an element of uncertainty, but yes, I'm as confident as I can be."

He looked around where they were standing on the rooftop of 221b. It was pitch dark, Baker Street was deserted, which was why they had chosen this time of night to say good-bye.

Sherlock Holmes was watching in silence as Tony closed the faceplate. "Well," Iron Man's electronically altered voice said, "it's been a blast. I'll never again be able to read one of your stories without remembering this little episode. Thanks for the hospitality, and if you ever find yourselves stranded in the twenty-first century for any reason, be sure to call on me."

Holmes and Watson exchanged a look. "We will, Stark," Holmes said. "Depend upon it."

And then he was in the air, accelerating towards the calculated position, changing course at the calculated point, G forces pressing down on him.

There was a gigantic explosion. Iron Man, being right on top of it, didn't even have time to curl up into an instinctive fetal position before he was hit by the concussion wave and blasted an indeterminate but probably considerable distance. His head up display went dark even as his own senses faded for a few seconds.

Tony's consciousness was back online before Jarvis was. "Systems rebooting" was the slightly blurry message he could see on the HUD even as the swishing sounds that got through his helmet told him that he was, incredibly, still air-borne, and going at high speeds. Some blast, he thought, bracing himself for the impact that surely was imminent. Abruptly, his display and systems fizzled to life just in time for him to fire up his boot thrusters and repulsors, barely avoiding crashing into the administrative building of Stark Industries, London division that suddenly loomed up right in front of him.

"Jarvis?" he asked. "Are we back? And what was that explosion? Please tell me that wasn't my experimental lab."

"I am correlating data, sir. We seem to have returned ten minutes before we left. The lab is undamaged. There seems to have been an electric discharge in the upper atmosphere."

"I've been hit by lightning?"

"So it would appear."

"Huh. Well, okay, I suppose that's not too bad, then. Let's get down and see to it that I don't blow up my own property."

He descended, looking forward to getting out of the suit and buying the Complete Sherlock Holmes stories. Nothing like a change of perspective to make one appreciate vintage literature.

* * *

The End.


End file.
